


One Thousand Miles

by hellacluttered



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: American History, Angst, Civil War, F/M, Fluff, Romance, the magnificent seven - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10409670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellacluttered/pseuds/hellacluttered
Summary: Goodnight looked up at the old manor house, its candle-lit windows welcoming in the chilly night. It had been a long week of marching, and though he was sure he would not get a bed, he was exceedingly grateful that he would have a roof over his head and maybe some decent food. He estimated the temperature was close to freezing, and the pace of their march had slowed as they grew tired; he was shivering under the dark blue wool uniform jacket.The company came to a halt when they reached the front of the house, and just as Captain Stevenson started up the steps, the front door opened and a stately-looking older man stepped out, the heels of his shoes clicking lightly on the wood of the porch. “I’m James Cox. Welcome to our home,” he said simply. “And thank you for your service. Please come in.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this starts in winter of 1861-62, the first year of the Civil War (or the War of Northern Aggression, as I suppose the Southerners in Mag7 would have called it). Goody’s 29 at this point (if I make out Goodnight to be the same age in the movie as Ethan Hawke is). I'm writing in third-person instead of second-person because this is something I got super inspired to write and I'm trying to write it as a formal work which is also much longer than my usual fics (it’s almost 10k words!). I love writing about these guys’ backstories and I hope this has come out as good on paper as it sounds in my head, and that you guys will enjoy it! Sorry about the slightly weird formatting.

     Goodnight looked up at the old manor house, its candle-lit windows welcoming in the chilly night. It had been a long week of marching, and though he was sure he would not get a bed, he was exceedingly grateful that he would have a roof over his head and maybe some decent food. He estimated the temperature was close to freezing, and the pace of their march had slowed as they grew tired; he was shivering under the dark blue wool uniform jacket.

     The company came to a halt when they reached the front of the house, and just as Captain Stevenson started up the steps, the front door opened and a stately-looking older man stepped out, the heels of his shoes clicking lightly on the wood of the porch. “I’m James Cox. Welcome to our home,” he said simply. “And thank you for your service. Please come in.”

     The silence and order of the company broke as they ascended the stairs in a jumble, filing through the door and into the well-lit house. Goodnight looked around in some awe as they passed through the entrance hall; the soaring ceiling, the elaborate chandelier, the walls adorned with paintings and relics of the Revolutionary War- he’d never been in so ornate a house before. He didn’t know exactly where they were headed, but he just kept following the men ahead of him, finally coming to a stop in what he guessed was a ballroom- he hadn’t seen one in person before, but it fit the criteria of what he’d read in novels. The other soldiers were already beginning to put down their things, unrolling bedrolls and starting on late-night snacks.

     Goodnight did the same, wrapping himself up in his coarse wool blanket and preparing to sleep. Within a quarter of an hour the tired company had quieted down and the candles had been put out. The quiet was frequently interrupted by the sound of shifting material as someone rolled over or snores (which usually ended by the perpetrator getting elbowed by their neighbor), but neither were loud. Yet still, Goodnight couldn’t sleep.

     He rolled from one side to the other, his eyelids closed, but his mind and his eyes were both quite alert, and and tiredness would not come. Finally he stood, not quite sure where he was going, but sure that he didn’t want to lie there any longer. He carefully crept through the sleeping bodies, and he was nearly to the door when a sharp whisper rung out. “Robicheaux!”

     He jumped, startled, and looked down to see his friend looking back up at him. “Good Lord, Jeeves, you trying to give me a heart attack?”

     Jeeves chuckled. “Nah, just wondered where you’re headed.”

     “Can’t sleep,” Goodnight said. “I’m gonna walk around. Explore this place a little.”

     “Knock yourself out,” Jeeves said. “Just don’t wake me up again.” But there was a good-humored sparkle in his eyes despite his words.

     “Will do,” Goodnight said, and then slipped through the door.

     The halls were deserted as he walked through them, occasionally taking a peek through an open door. He spotted a piano in one room, and the sight of the keys drew him- it had been far too long since he'd been able to play- but it was too late in the night to do so and he resisted the temptation. Instead, he walked on, finally entering what looked like a small library, where a fire burned in the hearth. He dearly hoped he was allowed to be there as he picked a book off the shelf and settled down on the hearth with Great Expectations in his hand.

     Warm and comfortable, his mind engaged and unworried, he slowly began to grow drowsy, but kept reading- the book was an old favorite of his- and he didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he woke to someone shaking his shoulder.

     “Excuse me.”

     But this wasn't the voice of Sergeant Kipling, who always woke them up. This was a woman’s voice. His eyes shot open and he looked up to see her leaning over him, her expression tentative as she said, “Sorry to wake you, but…”

     “Not to worry,” he said. “I didn't mean to fall asleep in here.” He picked up the book, which was still propped open on his chest, and stood.

     “It's hard to put down Dickens, isn't it?” she said, a small smile dancing around the corner of her lips.

     “It is,” Goodnight said, looking around for where he'd gotten the book from.

     “Here,” the young woman said, taking the book from his hand and sliding it into the spot on the shelf that had eluded Goodnight’s still-sleepy eyes.

     “Thank you,” he said.

     “You're welcome,” she replied. “Probably been awhile since you've gotten a chance to read, eh?”

     He nodded. “It has. Couldn't stop myself from coming in here last night. Wasn't sure if I was allowed, so I guess it's a good thing you woke me instead of the master of the house. Wouldn't want to get in trouble my first night here.”

     “Not to worry,” she said. “My father said everything we have is open to your company. I understand he knows the captain.”

     “Your father?” Goodnight said, his brain assembling the pieces quickly. “Then you're…”

     “Eliza Cox,” she said, extending a hand.

     He took it and raised it to his lips, brushing a light kiss against her knuckles. “Corporal Robicheaux at your service, but you can call me Goodnight.”

     “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

     “The pleasure is mine,” he said warmly. “I’d better get back to the company, but…”

     “I’ll see you around, I’m sure,” she said.

     “Good.” He left her with a fleeting wave and a charming smile.

  
*****

  
     Goodnight leveled his rifle, sighting at the target he’d set up on a haybale 1500 yards or so away in the now-desolate fields. It was a closer range than he usually shot at, but he figured he’d start close and move the target farther out later on. He eased back on the trigger, readying for the kick as the gun released. The shot rang out in the dull silence, dying without echo in the cold. He set down the gun on his blanket, which he’d brought out with him, and checked the shot through his spotting scope. Bullseye.

     When he went back inside he was shivering- he was always focusing too hard when he shot to notice whether he was cold or not- and after returning his gun to his little sleeping space in the ballroom, he returned to the library, hoping the fire would still be lit. To his relief, it was, and he hurried across the room to sit down, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw the top of a head protruding above the back of one of the two armchairs that faced the fireplace. He immediately began to back away as silently as he could, not wanting to bother the person without knowing who they were, but one of the floorboards creaked under his boot and he froze, watching as the top of the head turned and then the person stood. “Corporal Robicheaux!” Eliza said cheerfully and he relaxed. “Can’t say I’m too surprised to see you in here.”

     “No?” he said, and she shook her head. “Were you hoping I’d show up?” he added teasingly and she just laughed.

     “I saw you shooting out there. It’s a cold day; no wonder you’re shivering. Come sit by the fire and warm up.”

     He took her up on the offer gladly, opting to sit on the hearth again instead of the other armchair as it was closer to the heat. “What do you do around here all winter?” he asked. 

     “Read,” she said. “Walk. Shoot.”

     “You shoot?” he asked.

     “My father said I should learn, so I did. I like it.”

     “It’s a good skill to have,” Goodnight commented. “I saw a piano somewhere; do you play?”

     “Only a little,” she said. “I’m trying to learn, but… It’s not going too well. Do you?”

     “Yes,” he said. “I made a few dollars as a kid playing in saloons.” He chuckled, thinking back. “I had a bit of a reputation back then; everyone around town knew me.”  
Eliza smiled warmly, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly as she did. “I can imagine. Where are you from?”

     “New Orleans,” he said. “Have you always lived here?”

     She nodded. “I was born in this house.”

     Goodnight nodded slowly. “Seems like a nice way to live.”

     “Yes,” she said, but something in her voice was hesitant and Goodnight prompted,

     “But?”

     “Well, it’s… It’s quiet,” Eliza said. “Which isn’t always bad of course, but…”

     “I understand,” Goodnight said.

     Just then Goodnight heard footsteps in the hall and a familiar voice called, “Corporal Robicheaux.”

     Goodnight shot to his feet, standing at attention. “Yessir.”

     “Everyone’s wanted in the ballroom, forthwith. Move out.” The lieutenant moved on and Goodnight’s posture relaxed.

     “Well, I guess that means I should go,” he said, and Eliza nodded.

     “I’m sure I’ll see you around,” she said and he smiled, tipping the brim of his cap to her.

     “Until then m’lady.”

     Her laugh at the title followed him out the door.

  
*****

  
     The next day was busy with drills and shooting practice, but the day after he decided to go back to the library. He did genuinely feel like reading a book, but he realized that he had ulterior motives when he found the room deserted and disappointment tugged the corners of his lips down. Oh well. He grabbed a book off the shelf, this one a history volume, and sat down in one of the armchairs to read, the heat of the fire like a blanket over his legs. He was learing about John Adams when he heard the door creak and looked up to see Eliza entering. “Here again?” she said, crossing the room to take a seat.

     “It would seem that way,” he replied with a smile.

     And so the days began to pass, a sort of pattern forming. On days that they didn’t drill all afternoon, Goodnight would spend a few hours in the library, and if Eliza wasn’t there first, she usually showed up eventually. They didn’t always talk, usually ending up reading in comfortable silence, occasionally stopping to share a passage of their book with the other. Goodnight enjoyed Eliza’s company and their discussions of whatever books they were reading, be it British classics, history, science, or any range of topics. She was sharp, quick-witted and thoughtful, an insight or theory Goodnight hadn’t thought of always on the tip of her tongue. He came to look forward to his time in the library just as much as his shooting practice, and sometimes he let himself consider the idea that he looked forward to it more.

  
*****

  
     The company had been staying in the house for just over a month when the captain received a letter. Goodnight was out shooting when some instinct told him there was someone behind him and he turned between shots, almost dropping his gun in his hurry to stand when he saw the captain standing there. “Sir,” he said, the heels of his boots clicking together as he straightened his shoulders, his hands resting, balled loosely, against the seam of his pants.

     “The Union forces have begun to advance. They’re calling for sharpshooters in Tennessee. You’re being deployed, Corporal.”

     Excitement, pride, trepidation tightened his chest. “Yes, sir. When do I leave, sir?”

     “As soon as possible. Go pack your things. Sergeant Kipling will accompany you.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     As Goodnight and Kipling rode at a quick trot down the road away from the house barely fifteen minutes later, Goodnight glanced back, his gaze alighting on a familiar figure in an upstairs window. He gave a playful salute and Eliza waved back.

  
*****

  
     A month and a half later, Goodnight Robicheaux rode wearily back up the road to the Cox estate, his left arm secured in a sling and his right limp, his fingers weakly grasping the reins. The weather was cold but he was hot with fever, rivulets of sweat running down his spine, his uniform unpleasantly damp. He’d been on the road for nearly twenty hours straight, and both he and his horse were on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, but the end was in sight, and the news had to be brought, and he urged the horse on for the last hundred yards, sliding off at the steps of the porch. His knees buckled under him as he landed, and he barely managed to catch himself before he hit the ground. He staggered up the front steps, fingers grabbing clumsily at the door knob. Goodnight stumbled inside, almost tripping over the doorstep, feeling a sense of peace accompanying his single-minded goal when his blurring vision brought Captain Stevenson into focus. “Corporal Robicheaux!” He heard the captain’s voice as if through a pillow, hushed and edgeless. “Someone get a medic!”

     “Captain,” he gasped. “Lieutenant General Jackson needs reinforcements.” Then the woozy, spinning feeling in his head took over, the unfocused edges of his vision spreading across his whole line of sight, and he pitched forward, dropping out of consciousness.

  
*****

  
     Goodnight awoke, unsurprisingly, in pain, but a very different kind than before. Before, it had been a feverish, ceaseless throbbing, rhythmic and violent as the beating of a drum, emanating in waves from the bullet wound in his shoulder. Now it was an even ache, dull and foggy. It felt healthier than the other kind. He raised a hand to touch his forehead. The skin was cool, the fever dispersed. He looked around, finding he was in a bedroom, and though he didn’t individually recognize it, the style of decor was consistent with the Cox manor, which made sense as he vaguely remembered drawing near it on his ride. But… A bolt of panic shot through him and he jerked upright, cursing under his breath at the increased pain in his shoulder. His shirt was gone, but his uniform pants were still on and he stood out of bed, placing a hand on the nightstand and leaning on it for a moment until his head stopped pitching. Then he hurried across the room, ignoring the jolts that each uneven step sent through his shoulder, and burst through the door into the hall, shuffling toward the staircase as fast as he could. He was nearly to the steps when a voice rang out behind him. “Corporal Robicheaux!”

     He turned to see a middle-aged woman in a plain dress and apron quickly walking toward him. “I… I need to get to the Captain; is he still here?” he asked.

     “No, he and the rest of the company left two nights ago.”

     Goodnight relaxed, resting a hand on the banister as his head began to reel again. “They’re going West? To join General Jackson?”

     She nodded. “Captain Stevenson said you were to come after them as soon as you are well enough to ride and shoot. But until then, I’m to help take care of you, and you, young man, should be in bed.”

     He smiled weakly. “All right, I’m coming. What time of day is it?”

     “Around noon,” she said. “You were out cold for almost two days. You must be starving!”

     He nodded, beginning the return journey to his room, trailing one hand along the wall for extra support. “Come to think of it, I am.”

     “Well, once you’re back in bed, I’ll get you some soup.”

     “Thank you,” he said genuinely. “What’s your name?”

     “Martha,” she said.

     “Goodnight’s my name,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

     “Well it wasn’t me that cleaned out your wound. It had festered; you’re lucky you were unconscious when it got reopened. It wasn’t a pretty sight and it would have hurt bad.”

     “Who fixed me up?” Goodnight asked.

     “Mr. Wilson, the doctor from town, oversaw the whole thing, but it was mostly Miss Cox,” Martha said. “She’s in training to be a nurse.”

     “Ahh, I see,” Goodnight said.

     He made it back to bed and Martha disappeared to get him some food. After wolfing down the bowl of soup, he settled in to get some rest as sleepiness began to descend over him.

  
*****

  
     When he woke, his head was turned toward the wall, and he didn’t feel like moving it, until he heard the creak of the door opening and turned to see who it was. “Miss Cox!” his voice came out weak and rough from sleep.

     “How’re you feeling?” she asked, entering the room but leaving a few feet of space between herself and his bed.

     “Not too bad, considering,” he said. “I hear you used me for practice.”

     She colored slightly. “Everything went fine and Doctor Wilson was overseeing; if anything had gone wrong, he-”

     “I’m just teasing you,” he said. “Seems you did a good job. Everything works all right, at least.”

     “Good,” she said, seeming relieved. “Martha brought you food, I hope?”

     “Yes.”

     “Do you mind me asking… what was it like over there?” she asked.

     “Fighting?”

     Eliza nodded.

     “It’s not my first fight, but…” he shook his head. “It was harsh. So many dying.” His brow furrowed, images flashing behind his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to talk about it yet.”

     “Oh, that’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry I asked.”

     “Don’t worry about it,” Goodnight said, forcing a small smile in an attempt to reassure her.

     “All right,” she said hesitantly. “I also came in here to give you this.” She held out a book he didn’t realize she’d been holding. He didn’t recognize the title and looked up at her questioningly. “They’re short stories, some of them fairytales. I don’t know if you like fantasy, but I thought you might want something to get your mind off things.”

     “Thank you,” he said, and his smile was genuine this time. He was about to extract his arm from under the blankets when another idea came to mind. “Actually… Would you by any chance mind reading to me?” He knew it was a forward thing to ask, and he wouldn’t have said it if he’d thought about it much in advance, and he swallowed hard, nervous, as he waited for her answer.

     To his relief, she smiled, lowering the book again, and nodded. “Of course.”

     She sat down in the chair at the end of the bed, opening the book to the first page.

     “It was a cloudy day in Glasgow when the first fairy appeared…”

     Her storytelling was animated and engaging, and thought Goodnight wasn’t normally a particularly large fan of fairytales, he enjoyed this one greatly, and he had a feeling it had a good deal more to do with its conveyor than the story itself.

     It was to the sound of her voice that he peacefully fell asleep.

  
*****

  
     That night, he slept heavily, the exhaustion easily subduing his memories. In the morning, he woke to find a stack of books on the night stand, and knew without a doubt who they were from. He was several chapters into the first when Martha and Eliza came in together.

     “Good morning, Corporal Robicheaux,” Martha said cheerfully. “How are you doing? Did you get any sleep?”

     “I slept very well, thank you,” he said. He was starting to push himself up into a sitting position when Martha said,

     “No, no, stay as you are. We’re going to check on your wound.”

     “Ah, okay,” he said, relaxing again, his fingers quickly unbuttoning his shirt as Eliza set a basket of supplies on the night stand next to the books and sat down on the edge of the bed. Goodnight looked up at her, their eyes meeting for just a moment before his gaze darted away; the connection had been too sudden, too bright, like the flare of flame from a lighting match. Goodnight fixed his gaze on the ceiling, hoping the pounding of his heart wasn’t visible in his now-bared chest. Eliza eased off the sleeve of his shirt, apologizing quietly when he winced. Once the sleeve was off, she unwound the bandage, and then examined the wound for a few moments, her expression unreadable.

     “How’s it look?” Goodnight asked.

     “Good,” she said. “The swelling has come down, and it seems to be closing nicely.”

     “Thank the Lord,” Goodnight said. Despite that judging by the way he felt, he was sure he was making progress, he had been harboring a worry deep down that something would go wrong and cause permanent damage.

     “You’re very fortunate this didn’t come out worse.”

     “I am,” he agreed.

     She wound a new strip of bandage around his shoulder, tying it off neatly, and then helped him get the sleeve back on. “When do you think I’ll be fit to ride again?” he asked.

     “As soon as the risk of infection is down, I’d say,” she said. “I think the wound will have closed enough in three, four days.”

     “That long?” he asked.

     “You were shot, Goodnight,” she said firmly, her tone demanding respect. “You almost died. Spending a week in recovery isn’t unreasonable.”

     “Can’t argue with that, can I?” Goodnight said to Martha, and the older woman chuckled, shaking her head.

     “That you can’t.”

     The two had just left when Goodnight realized Eliza had used his first name for the first time.

  
*****

  
     Goodnight couldn’t get to sleep that night. He’d been lying still for far too long and his legs were restless, but the biggest factor keeping him awake, though he didn’t want to admit it, was his mind. He’d always been prone to nightmares as a child, and with the gruesome, wrackingly raw images of the war running through his mind in a constant current behind his conscious thought, he knew he would not sleep easily or well.

     He needed to get rid of some energy, so he sat up, restraining a grunt at the renewed throbbing in his shoulder, and reached for his jacket with his good arm, draping it messily around his shoulders. His boots were at the foot of the bed and he slid them on before standing. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room read 12:45, and the moon, which he could see through the window, whose curtains he had left open, was high in the sky. His footsteps seemed loud in the silent house, but no one had come out by the time he reached the front door, and he slipped out into the chill night, sure he hadn’t woken anybody.

     The air was clammy but the sky was clear, scattered with stars like speckles from a paintbrush. The full moon was bright enough to cast his shadow on the ground as he descended the steps, and he began to walk, starting slowly at first, and then moving into a more even, normal pace as his shoulder began to loosen and adjust to the movement. He took one turn around the house, making sure he wasn’t going to grow lightheaded or pass out, and then turned toward the fields.

     It was just then that he heard the distinct click of the door closing and turned to see Eliza descending the steps, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders over her nightdress. He turned, walking back toward her. “What are you doing out here?” he asked. “It’s cold!” He slipped off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders and holding it there until she stopped trying to resist.

     “I came out here to ask you the same thing,” she said. “You really should be sleeping- you need good rest to heal. And the more you jar that wound, the slower it’ll be to mend.”

     “I couldn’t sleep,” Goodnight said.

     “How come?” Eliza asked, her sternness diminishing somewhat.

     “I couldn’t hold still, and… Given the things that go through my head during the day, Lord knows what I’d dream about once I haven’t got control of my thoughts anymore.”

     “Nightmares?” she asked, her expression now filled with sympathy.

     “Memories… Nightmares… It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. Either way, I’ll do what I can to pass them up.”

     Eliza just looked at him for a moment, considering, and then offered him an arm. “For support,” she explained when he looked at the proffered arm confusedly. “I’ll walk with you.”

     “Your daddy wouldn’t approve of this, would he?” Goodnight asked, attempting to bring some lightheartedness into the dark moments.

     “My daddy’s asleep, and I’m a grown woman anyway,” she said, and then nudged his arm with her elbow, prompting him to slip his own through it. “And take back your jacket,” she added, briefly disconnecting their arms to put his coat back around him before putting her arm through his again.

     “But you’ll get cold!” he protested, struggling to get his arm free of her again, but she didn’t let him, saying calmly,

     “I’ll be fine.”

     “As soon as I feel you shivering, you’re taking the jacket and we’re going back to the house.”

     She laughed. “Fine.”

     They walked in silence, the quiet rustles of their feet and the occasional howls of distant coyotes the only noises.

     Goodnight closed his eyes for a moment, letting Eliza’s arm guide him. Slowly the pain and anxiety and restlessness was working its way out of his muscles, letting his mind return to a dull sense of peace and tiredness. When they finished their turn around the cornfield, Goodnight said, “Well, I think that did the trick. Thank you for keeping me company.”

     “Sure,” she said. “Let me walk you up.”

     “Very chivalrous of you,” he said and she laughed as they walked up the porch steps.

     He gently tugged his arm out of hers to open the door, and held it for her, replying with a nod of his own to her nod of thanks. Goodnight had still not recovered from the missed days of eating and all the time lying down, and he felt thoroughly weary by the time they had reached the top of the staircase and walked down the hall to his room. “Well,” he said, resting his good forearm against the doorframe and leaning on it. “Good night, Miss Eliza.”

     “Good night,” she replied.

     “Yes?” he said, knowing full well she hadn’t been saying his name.

     She laughed, shaking her head at the ill-formed pun. “Sleep well.”

     “You too.” He watched for a moment as she walked down the hall, her posture graceful and proud, and then he went into his own room to sleep.

  
*****

  
     The next afternoon, Martha came in to tell him he was invited to eat dinner with the Cox family if he felt up to it; he assured her that he did but he really had nothing to wear, and she quickly returned with a suit, saying it belonged to one of Eliza’s uncles who visited rarely and wouldn't mind.

     Goodnight checked his appearance in the mirror one last time, pushing back a strand of hair and hoping it didn't look too scraggly; it was starting to get overly long. Then he descended the steps and walked toward the dining room, where he found the Cox family already seated at one end of their long table, Mr. Cox at the head, and Mrs. Cox and Eliza at his right and left, respectively. A maid pulled out the chair next to Mrs. Cox as Goodnight approached, and he sat down, tucking the the tails of the coat under him as he did. “Good evening, Corporal Robicheaux,” Mr. Cox said, giving the younger man a small, welcoming smile.

     “Good evening, sir,” he said, “Thank you for inviting me to join your family for dinner.”

     “You're most welcome,” Mr. Cox said, “Although I must admit, I have a bit of an ulterior motive.”

     “Oh?” Goodnight asked curiously.

     “Yes,” Mr. Cox confirmed. “But let us eat first and we will speak of serious matters later.”

     The dinner passed quickly in cheerful talk of times gone by, of stories of life in the manor, family history, and a discussion of the differences between Little Rock, on the outskirts of which the Coxes’ land was, and New Orleans. The Coxes were a warm, welcoming family, and as he started to get to know Eliza’s parents, Goodnight began to see where part of her personality came from.

     It was when they retreated to the parlor and Mr. Cox sat down with Goodnight in front of the fireplace, his strong features growing serious, that Goodnight’s easiness began to slip away. “So tell me, how is the war effort going?”

     Goodnight swallowed, swirling the glass of brandy in his hand. His eyes involuntarily glanced at Eliza, immediately picking out the look of concern in her eyes. He shook his head infinitesimally to discourage her from saying anything, and turned to reply to Mr. Cox, trying to compose his answer as he did. “It’s… We're holding up. It's a horrible place, but so far, things are going as they should.”

     “Good,” Mr. Cox said. “So, General Jackson must be launching quite an offensive; sounds from what I heard that he's mustering all the troops he can.”

     “That's correct. We were in Shenandoah Valley, sir, won a few small fights. The rush for everyone to get there paid off,” Goodnight explained.

     “Good,” Mr. Cox said. “How’d you fare, Corporal Robicheaux? Before you got shot, that is. Damn Yankees.”

     “I-” Goodnight swallowed, that dark undercurrent of his mind starting to rise to the fore. “I shot well. I’m a sharpshooter, so I wasn’t at the front of fight much. But I did my job.”

“Good for you, son,” Mr. Cox said, nodding encouragingly in his direction.

  
*****

  
     When Goodnight was preparing for bed that night, he was shaky, restless, his thoughts moving faster even than his agile fingers as he changed into his nightclothes and prepared to sleep.

His rest was heavy, deep, and to his relief, only occasionally troubled by dreams.

  
*****

  
     The next morning, Eliza came to check on his wound, and her expression seemed quite satisfied when she examined it. “Well?” he said.

     “It’s healing fast,” she said. “You’ll be all set soon.”

     “Good,” Goodnight said. “Then I’ll plan on leaving tomorrow.”

     Her eyebrows dropped, the slight upturn of her lips straightening. “Even despite..."

     He shrugged, saying simply, “I have to. Moreover, I should.”

     She sighed. “All right.”

     “What?” he said, his tone turning teasing. “You gonna miss me?”

     “Of course I am!” she said, surprising him with her genuineness. “You better come back here and stay here again when you’re not needed in the war.”

     He smiled. “I’ll try.”

     She looked down, her fingers playing with the quilt. “Do you think you’ll… make it… that long?”

     “I can’t say,” Goodnight said. “I’ll try my best.”

     “Good,” her fingers ghosted over his arm as she stood, taking the basket of medical supplies off the night stand before she left.

     Goodnight spent much of the day reading, some alone, and some with Eliza (which resulted in an intense discussion of Revolutionary War tactics), and went to bed early, wanting to be well-rested before he left the next day.

  
*****

  
     When he sat up in the morning, stretching stiffly, his bleary eyes focused on something foreign hanging on the door. A uniform, a different one than his own. He could hear footsteps in the hall and he called, “Martha?” as he got out of bed.

     The head that came through the door wasn’t Martha, however, it was Eliza. “Oh, good morning,” he said.

     “‘Morning,” she replied. “Is everything okay?”

     He nodded. “But that’s not my uniform.”

     “It is now,” she said. “It was delivered last night.”

     “But that’s…” Goodnight trailed off, confusion starting to be replaced with excitement. “That’s a lieutenant’s uniform.”

     There was a grin on Eliza’s face as she handed him a sheet of paper. “This came too. Maybe it’ll clarify things."

     Goodnight broke the seal, his eyes skimming over the words contained inside. “I got promoted!” he said. “The Captain said he’s going to keep me on as a sharpshooter but considering how I fought he thought I deserved the rank and the pay raise.” He looked up at Eliza, who was beaming almost as big as him.

     “Congratulations!” she exclaimed.

     Goodnight didn’t know who had taken the first step, but he found the distance between them disappearing as their arms wrapped around each other, tight in their joy. Goodnight rested his chin on her shoulder, the subtle scent of her hair reaching his nostrils, and when she stepped back, he was grudging to let her go. “Well done, Lieutenant Robicheaux,” she said and he smiled.

     “Thank you, Miss Eliza.”

     “You’re welcome. You get dressed and come down when you’re ready. There’s breakfast.”

     “Thank you,” he said again.

     She slipped back through the door, closing it behind her, and then his gaze shifted back to the uniform, clean and well-pressed, the red sash hanging over the shoulder of the dark blue jacket, the trousers dark and neatly creased. _Lieutenant Robicheaux_ …

  
*****

  
     “Safe travels, Lieutenant,” Mr. Cox said, looking up at Goodnight, who, even at the foot of the steps, was still, on horseback, taller than him. “To victory!”

     “To victory,” Goodnight echoed. “Thank you all for letting me stay, and for taking care of me.” By the end of the sentence, his eyes had fixed on Eliza, who stood next to her mother.

     “It was our pleasure, Lieutenant Robicheaux,” Mr. Cox said. “If there is anything we can do to help in the future, you and your company are always welcome.”

     “Godspeed,” Mrs. Cox said.

     “Thank you,” Goodnight replied, and he truly did mean it from the heart.

     “Stay safe, Lieutenant,” Eliza said, and though he missed hearing her say his first name, he understood why she didn’t.

     “Thank you, Miss Cox,” he said, tilting the brim of his hat to her. “Until next time.”

     Then he wheeled his horse, calling his last farewell over his shoulder as the Coxes waved.

     He was going to where he needed to be, so why did he feel that he was leaving it? He knew there were many words unspoken, knew from the heaviness of his heart what he should have said, but also knew that it wouldn’t have been right to say just before leaving for war. He forced her out of his mind as best he could.

  
*****

  
     Shiloh, the Battle of Seven Pines, Second Manassas, Antietam- the battles had begun to meld into a single reddish blur in Goodnight’s mind by the time winter came and his company- what few had been left of the Tigers and other men of the Pelican Brigade they had joined with- were allowed to travel west for the winter. They had taken heavy casualties, and most of them were injured in some way or another, though the most lasting marks on Goodnight were now in his head rather than his body.  
Memories stabbed through his thoughts unbidden, nightmares riddled his sleep, he was jumpy and irritable. He had already lost most of his friends and made no effort to make new ones in case they should perish, so alone he struggled, grateful only for the blank spots in his memories of the battles, though he knew not why they existed.

     He had long looked forward to seeing Eliza, yet he found little joy in it when the company rode up the lane that led to the Cox manor and he saw the bustle of the family and servants arranging themselves on the porch to greet them. His eyes were fixed on Eliza as he watched her gaze search for him, but when her attention grew close, he looked down, not truly knowing why.

     Arranging his blankets in the ballroom brought a few fonder memories back, memories of lighter times, times when everyone fell asleep within minutes, but now it was nearly an hour before the sounds of waking men trailed off to be replaced by the sounds of sleep. They had all seen too much to sleep easy. Goodnight finally rose, creeping out of the room like last year, following the familiar halls to the front door and then out of it. Instead of walking, tonight he merely sat down on the porch swing, watching the tranquil moon rise. How would it be to be so far from the chaos…

     The door creaked and then clicked shut, and he looked up to see Eliza approaching, a tentative smile on her lips. “How are you, Goodnight?” she asked softly.

     His smile, though small, was genuine. “Care to sit down?” he asked, delaying having to answer the question.

     She did so, leaving a respectable few inches of space between them.

     “I’m doing… I-,” He broke off, unable to look her in the eye. “Tell me how you are first.”

     “I’m fine,” she said. “There isn’t really much to say. Your turn now.” Her voice was gentle, encouraging and Goodnight swallowed hard, trying to think of how to articulate his thoughts in a way that she could understand without having seen what he spoke of.

     “War… war is brutal, unspeakably brutal. There’s… So much killing. I can’t seem to shake it.” He wasn’t cold, but he shivered, his shoulders hunching in on themselves a little more. “I can’t sleep, can’t focus, it sticks with me all day; it’s lodged in my head just as surely as that bullet was in my shoulder.” His voice caught and he stopped, his eyes locked on his lap, wondering if he had said too much.

     Her hand moved into his line of sight, gently resting over his own, stable, comforting, warm. A lifeline. “If it helps you to talk, talk.”

     “I…” he trailed off, unsure what he wanted or needed. “I lost my friends,” he continued haltingly. “And I killed… I killed my own countrymen. I watched men slaughter each other like animals, I-” he couldn’t continue, there were helpless tears forming in his eyes. Eliza’s hand tightened around his, gently pulling him toward her. Her arms went around him and he melted into her embrace, his forehead resting on her shoulder as his body was wracked with silent sobs. “I’m sorry,” he gasped but she shook her head, her hand moving methodically up and down his back and the whirl of his mind began to gradually slow.

     “Any better?” she asked as he finally sat back, roughly mopping off his face with his sleeve.

     He nodded. “Thanks.”

     “I know this isn't important right now, but… I missed you, Goodnight. You don't know how relieved I was to see you get back here alive.”

     “I appreciate that,” he said, and he truly did. The words made his heart feel warmer than it had in months. “But I'm not the same man you knew then.”

     She shook her head. “That’s not true. Scars change you. They don't transform you.”

     “You think so?” he asked, and she nodded.

     “Who could go through what you have and not be changed by it? I can't even come close to imagining what it must be like but I can't imagine someone coming out on the other side exactly the same as they were going in. But you’re still Goodnight Robicheaux, still… my friend.”

     Goodnight considered her words, weighing them. “I suppose.”

     “Are you at all tired?” she asked.

     “A bit,” he said.

     Her hand, which had been resting in her lap, returned to his, her fingers gently lacing through his. “Good. Soon as you think you could sleep, let me know. I'll stay with you until then.”

     He glanced at her, surprised. He had returned just a shell of the cheerful and talkative young man he had been the previous year. “Why…?” She looked at him and he nodded at their joined hands.

     She hesitated, her lips parted slightly. And then she leaned in, pressing her lips to his cheek in the gentlest of kisses. He just stared at her when she sat back, a dumbstruck smile spreading across his lips, the fluttering of his heart overriding the heaviness of his mind. “I… I kept thinking after you left that you might not come back, and the more I thought about it the more I came to know my own mind, and I promised myself that if you returned, I wouldn't miss the opportunity again.” She looked away. “Well, that is, if you'll have me.”

     He shook his head in wonderment. “‘Course I will.”

     Her eyes met his again and her lips curved into a smile as he pulled her into another embrace, but this one different from the last- hopeful, not desolate; affectionate, not protective.

     “But I won’t hold you to it until I’m sure you know how I am now,” he said as she finally pulled back.

     “All right,” she said, but the tone of her voice told him she was sure nothing would change.

  
*****

  
     Through the tempests of memories that plagued his mind, through explosive moods and times when Goodnight couldn’t bring himself to even speak- Eliza was there through it all. He had garnered the nickname Angel of Death, but she was an angel of hope, comforting and caring for him when he hadn’t the will to do it himself, understanding and patient, putting up with him even through the worst of his moods.

     “I don’t deserve you, you know,” he said one tranquil night as they sat in the library, she in an armchair and he at the foot of it, preferring to sit on the ground closer to the fire, and closer to her, than he would be in the other chair.

     She shook her head. “It’s not me you don’t deserve, it’s the War.”

     He considered. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

     “The right one,” she said lightly, squeezing his shoulder.

  
*****

  
     December turned to January, then January to February, and Goodnight spent as much time as he could with Eliza, not knowing when exactly his company would be deployed, and whether he would see her again once they were. Nighttime walks, reading sessions, midnight raids on the kitchen- they shared as much time as they could, and Eliza’s presence was therapeutic to Goodnight, she was an anchor, helping keep his sanity one with his mind. One evening as they sat together in the library, Goodnight said, “Your parents wouldn’t approve of us, would they?” He already knew the answer; Eliza had never told Mr. and Mrs. Cox and they were never public with their affection, which was indication enough. Yet he wanted to hear Eliza’s opinion.

     She considered, putting down her book. “They really like you, Goodnight. They enjoy your company. They know you’re smart, personable, kind- that’s why they invite you to eat with us so much.”

     “But as soon as the war’s over, I’m not a lieutenant anymore, I’m just a poor boy from New Orleans,” Goodnight said.

     Eliza hesitated. “That would probably be what they’d think.”

     Goodnight nodded. “I understand.”

     “I don’t care,” Eliza said, and he looked up sharply. “I don’t care about whether you’re not well-off or any of that. I…” she paused, looking down at her lap. “I want to stay in your life.”

     Something deep in Goodnight’s chest snapped and he stood, walking over to the other chair to kneel in front of her, taking her hands in his own. “I’ll allow that, darlin.’”

     She smiled, the uncertainty fading from her face, and Goodnight stretched up to kiss her, letting the caress of her lips disintegrate his worries for the time being.

  
*****

  
     News came in the third week of February. The company would be leaving in four days for Virginia to join General Lee’s army. “I’ve got an idea,” Goodnight said one night as he and Eliza took a turn around the cornfield.

     “Yes?”

     “Do you have plans tomorrow?”

     Eliza shook her head. “Why?”

     “I think I’d like to marry you.”

     She turned to him, her mouth hanging open. “You… what?”

     He smiled, dropping to one knee and taking her hand in his. “I couldn’t afford a ring, but… Eliza Abbie Cox, would you do me the honor of being my wife?”  
She clapped a hand over her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes,” she finally managed to choke out and Goodnight stood, his arms wrapping around her waist, and he spun her around as joyous tears began to form in his eyes too. He finally set her down, pressing a long kiss to her lips under the silver light of the moon.

     “I was thinking,” Goodnight said as they reached the house again. Eliza looked up at him, her smile radiant.

     “Yes?”

     “It wouldn’t be right to marry you without telling your parents.”

     Her smile disappeared. “Goodnight…”

     “I know, they won’t approve. And I’m not going to change my mind if they don’t. But it seems cowardly to sneak off and get married and not tell them. I’m thankful to them for a lot, most of all for you, and it just seems wrong.”

     “I… I guess you’re right,” Eliza said. “You’re not going to back out, no matter what they say?”

     “Nothing could make me,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose before opening the door to go inside.

     “All right,” she said, her features relaxing. “Then I’m doing it with you.”

  
*****

  
     The next morning, a very nervous Goodnight with an equally on-edge Eliza knocked on the door of Mr. Cox’s study. “Come in,” the familiar voice called. Goodnight turned the doorknob, holding the door open for Eliza and then stepping in behind her.

     “Pray tell, what are the pair of you doing here together?” asked Mr. Cox, perplexed.

     “Well, we…” Goodnight hesitated, not sure how to start. Just then Eliza’s hand crept into his, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze, and he blazed ahead, even as Mr. Cox’s eyes looked on their linked fingers with confusion. “Last spring, after I went to war, sir,” he began, and Mr. Cox’s eyes returned to his. “I realized that I had fallen in love with your daughter Eliza.” Saying the words aloud gave him clarity, and his voice was even and controlled, his nerves diminishing as he continued. “When I came back in December, my feelings were renewed and as it happened, she felt the same way. Last night, I proposed to her, and today, we’re going to town to be married.”

     Mr. Cox just stared at them dumbfounded, his eyes fixing on Goodnight, then moving to Eliza, and back to Goodnight. “And…” he cleared his throat. “How do you plan on providing for my daughter once the war is over?”

     “I’ll get a job,” Goodnight said. “I can work hard. I will work hard.”

     “But you have no prospects lined up.”

     Goodnight hesitated. “...No.”

     Mr. Cox considered, his expression severe. “Lieutenant Robicheaux, I think you know I cannot give my blessing to this match. I love my Eliza too, and I cannot approve her going until I know she will be provided for.”

     “But papa,” Eliza protested, “I don’t need to be rich. I… I want to be with Goodnight. I don’t care where or how. I can’t carry on this way anymore, I can’t live like this, feeling guilty for loving Goodnight and keeping it a secret like it’s something to be ashamed of. I’m grateful for what you and mama have done for me, and I appreciate your concern, but I want to marry Goodnight, and I’m going to do it today.” Her voice was commanding, her normally relaxed persona swelling to the edges of the room.

     “Then it seems I can’t stop you,” Mr. Cox said finally. “Give your mother and I some time to discuss this and prepare. What time are you planning to go to town?”

  
*****

  
     The wedding was small and simple; apart from Mr. and Mrs. Cox, Sergeant Kipling and Corporal William Johnson, Goodnight’s only close friend from the company, no one else there, but neither the bride nor groom cared.

     Goodnight could not remember ever feeling such untainted and pure jubilee as when the minister declared he and Eliza man and wife and he held her in his arms with no concern, no secrecy, and every wall separating them demolished.

_Mr. and Mrs. Robicheaux._

  
*****

  
     They had not time for a honeymoon, but they were given one of the house’s guest suites for the last three nights and two days before Goodnight had to go. The men of the company wanted to throw a party for him, but he turned them down to spend the last days with his wife.

     The morning of his departure he awoke to find her peacefully asleep next to him, her hair laying mussed across her pillow like a halo above her head, her face peaceful in sleep. Goodnight gently slipped an arm under her neck, and one around her waist, turning her body toward him so that her cheek rested on his shoulder.

     “What time is it?” she asked sleepily.

     “Nearly seven,” he said.

     She nodded, draping an arm over his chest and wrapping a leg around his. “Don’t go.”

     He kissed her forehead, his fingers playing gently through her tangled hair. “I have to.”

     “Then come back quickly.”

     “I’ll try.”

     For ten minutes or so they lay in silence and Goodnight closed his eyes, trying to memorize the feeling of her body tucked against his, of her fingers between his own, of her head tucked under his chin, of the graceful curve of her side and the cascades of her hair. But all too soon he had to get up so he would be ready in time and Eliza rose too, silently helping him dress in his uniform. She wouldn’t look up at him when she finished buttoning his jacket, and he reached up, gently angling her chin up so she had to meet his eyes, just as a single tear overflowed, trickling down her cheek. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, though both knew he couldn’t promise it. “I’ll write.”

     She nodded, letting out a heavy sigh as she took his hands in hers, resting her forehead against his. “I love you.”

     He smiled, tilting his head slightly to one side and stepping forward to kiss her. “I love you too,” he murmured against her lips.

  
*****

  
     Goodnight couldn’t stop looking back as the company rode away from the Cox Manor. There stood Eliza and her parents on the porch. He could already feel a deep hollowness in his chest- he supposed it was the part of his heart he’d left with Eliza. It was only when when they turned onto the main road, separated from the manor’s ground by a dense line of trees that he finally returned his eyes to the way ahead.

 

*****

  
     Skirmish after skirmish, battle after battle, 1863 crept by. Goodnight wrote Eliza whenever he could, letting her know in his letters when they would be staying in a place long enough for her to write back to him there. Her letters brought light to his darkest days, and he kept track of the date only to count to the winter, still hoping he would get to see her then.

     But the Confederacy was struggling. All forces were needed, and it was disconsolately that he wrote to her to tell her that the company would not be coming to Arkansas that winter.

     And so the second year of their separation began to pass. The initial miserableness of it had faded somewhat to be replaced by a dull ache, always present at the back of head; it grew acute when he allowed himself to think about her, which ended up being very frequently, as much as he tried to avoid it.

     As 1864 began, and the months started to march by, Goodnight could see the end coming. Losses piled up, numbers shrank. The cloth from tents who had lost their owners was repurposed. The camps were smaller. September came and Fort Harrison fell. The mood of the army was dark, and Goodnight could not remember the last time he had smiled. He had hardly slept in many nights, so haunted was he by the screams of the dying, the expressions of those who lay in agony, mangled and torn; he was overwhelmed by the waves of callous death. Gunshots set him on edge, verging on panic, and he felt more tired when he got up in the morning than when he went to bed.

     At last with a shaky hand, he wrote to the captain above him, asking for three weeks’ leave. He hated to admit defeat, but he knew with the condition he was in it was only a matter of time before he would start making bad calls and getting the men under him killed. He knew the captain personally, and dearly hoped that his request would be granted.

     Upon receiving permission, Goodnight set out for Arkansas the next day, taking a train when he could, and riding when he couldn’t. He arrived at the Cox manor late at night, leaving his horse in the stable before tramping wearily up the front steps, knocking on the front door with a slow-moving hand. He heard rushed footsteps inside, their manner familiar, the door swung open, and he wrapped Eliza in his arms, hardly registering her questions and exclamations of relief or her words of affection. He didn’t want to let her go and they just stood there for close to a minute, she inside the doorstep and he out, his fingers moving agitatedly through her hair and across her back, a desperate attempt to make up for the lost time. “Thank God you’re alive,” she said, and that was when he realized he had forgotten to write her for close to two months, so enveloped in his struggle as he was.

     “Good Lord, I’m so sorry, Eliza. I’ll explain everything; I-”

     “Tomorrow,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”

  
*****

   
     Because of how long it would take to get back to Virginia, Goodnight was only able to stay at the Cox manor for six days. But six days spent away from the noise, from the blood, violence, and suffering, six days spent with the one who loved him more than any other person, talking, sleeping, and sometimes just sitting with her in his lap, playing with her hair as she rested her head on his shoulder, one of them dozing off from time to time, gave him new energy like nothing else could have.  
He returned to the war, not fixed but rested, not invulnerable but prepared, and the last six months until the surrender passed in a rush of fight after fight and traveling from one city to the next.

     His last ride from Virginia to Arkansas was a solitary and subdued one. The Confederacy had lost, countless soldiers had died, and it seemed the whole country needed rebuilding.

     But the fight was over, he was still alive, and he was going home.

     He had sent a letter in advance, and he pushed his horse to a gallop and the end of the lane up to Cox Manor, the warm wind blowing back his hair. The hoofbeats carried in the open air and he was almost to the house when the door swung open and Eliza ran onto the porch, a proud smile on her face. He dismounted, dashing up the steps to embrace her, his lips pressing against hers in an ardent kiss. “You made it,” she murmured as he laid his head on her shoulder, his forehead pressed to her neck, breathing in her scent, revelling in holding her again.

     He just nodded, content.

     “Also, Goody?” she said. “I have some news.”

     “Yes?” he said, standing back enough to look her in the eyes.

     “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

     His lips dropped open, his brows shooting up. “You’re…”

     “Pregnant,” she repeated, the grin spreading across her face only equalled by Goodnight’s. He pulled off his hat, proud, happy tears welling in his eyes.

     “Eliza…” he murmured, pulling her tight against him again. She laughed from sheer joy, the sound like music in his ears and he rocked her gently, utterly overwhelmed by happiness and gratitude.

     He didn’t know what the future held, though he was sure it couldn’t be more chaotic than the past. And he didn’t know how he would adjust to peace again, although he was sure it couldn’t be harder than adjusting to war. The combat with the demons in the back of his head was sure to continue, but here, with Eliza, he knew he could take it, and he had more than enough reason to. He was ready and eager to relinquish his rank of lieutenant; the titles of husband and father were plenty for him.


End file.
